


Standard Deviation

by BryonNightshade



Series: The Legacy of Cain [4]
Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: Charismatic villain, Gen, Villainous point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryonNightshade/pseuds/BryonNightshade
Summary: X1 prequel. "This is the most important thing to know about me: I am Sigma, and I am always right."
Series: The Legacy of Cain [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628878
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. What I Am

As I came awake, I immediately began running a system diagnostic.

I really dislike that about myself. It's what I'd consider my biggest flaw. But I don't hate it enough to stop.

The diagnostic completed, and reported that all systems were operating normally. Of course they were. They always were. That's me—normal. Stable. Logical to a fault.

The corner of my mouth curled into what could generously be called a smile. The unkind called it a sneer. It was a seemingly permanent fixture of my face. Oh, I had plenty of other expressions. I could produce the full range, matching the emotions I could feel. I just rarely found occasion to use them. My emotions tended to run away from extremes. They stayed in the same, relatively narrow band.

I had started making a deliberate effort towards being self-conscious, back when I first started having unusual thoughts. Unusual… a context-dependent term. What is unusual, anyway? That's the word that had popped into my mind, but it was hard to see how it really applied. The whole experience was disorienting. I actually went to Dr. Cain to have myself checked out. He didn't ask why, or any questions, really, other than to try and guide his exploration. In the end he gave me a clean bill of mental health, but I didn't like the way he looked at me. I liked my decision even less, afterwards. What if there had been something wrong with me? What would he have done? Did he sense something was bothering me? If he did, then what?

He didn't actually do anything, not that I can tell, but I resolved never to go back to him again. From then on, I took care of myself by myself. He was right, though. There wasn't anything wrong with me. There never has been. My cybernetic brain is a model of consistency and regularity.

That's why I smile. Okay, I'll be honest—that's why I sneer. Because no one processes data as cleanly and clearly as I do. Because no one has a better grasp of truth and lies and reality than I do. Because, even though there are a very few beings smarter than me, no one is as precise and focused on what must be done.

That's not boasting; it's fact, confirmed by batteries of testing. I am the sanest being on record. This is the most important thing you have to know about me: I am Sigma, and I am always right.

* * *

Maverick Hunter Headquarters is part police station, part administration building, part repair bay. It serves as a home base for my organization, the one that hunts down reploids that violate the celebrated Three Laws of Robotics. Hunter Headquarters also serves as a home base for many of the reploid members of the Hunters, myself included. I know that some Hunters make an effort to stay "out in town" to get some time away from work, but they're the strange ones. The rest of us earn undeserved kudos for being so dedicated to our job.

Public relations are always tricky for us. Most of my Hunters are themselves reploids, which seemed ironic to some. Why put reploids in charge of hunting reploids? Could they be trusted to do that job? Those objections were shouted down soon enough. The entire point of reploids, the mainstream opinion went, was to bring human-like intelligence to bear on situations that might endanger human life. The Hunters did take casualties from time to time, after all, and danger was a big part of the job. Why risk a human's life in those cases? Send the reploids. If they die, who cares?

I cared, I wanted to answer, but I came late to the party. I didn't come online until after such decisions had already been made. By then, it behooved me to behave myself, and move with at least a little caution.

These days, I didn't need as much caution. I was king of this castle, trusted, respected, honored. But caution still has its place. There are a few individuals within my walls that give me pause. And it would do no good to arouse suspicion of my intentions, not this early in the game.

I made the rounds as I always did—to the command center for a tactical update on incidents and unit distribution; to the repair bay for updates on material condition; then to the office to field messages and miscellany. My (reploid) secretaries are clever and I've given them a fair amount of leash to process paperwork in my name, but some things I have to do myself.

I am, after all, the face of the Maverick Hunters.

And what a face it is. Blue eyes, solid in color throughout like marbles. A red gem in my forehead. A squared-off chin. That smirk. The rest of me is hardly less remarkable. Long, powerful limbs, a height almost half again as tall as standard reploids, prominent pseudo-muscles in my abdomen, broad shoulders. It's an impressive, almost heroic visage. I've been told so by many. It works. It's appropriate.

Showing that face is important. That's why I go around so much before I go to the office. And that's one reason why I opt to go into the field when I can, even though the commander of the Maverick Hunters really shouldn't.

Just one reason.

I paused in my morning paperwork routine to address my _other_ responsibilities. A few funds diverted here… a few materials appropriated from there… beautiful. All of it hidden within rounding errors and false accounting codes. It didn't take me long to figure out how to subvert the bureaucracy. A bureaucracy is just a machine, and most run at less than full efficiency. A machine can be made to serve any master. This one served me.

So my private projects would continue to be funded. Excellent. I made a note to myself to check up on their progress later and returned to my normal duties, those found in my commission.

It was tedious work, made only slightly less tedious by the knowledge that it was necessary. I had appearances to keep up, after all. Playing a double game meant twice as much work.

I still managed to clear out my backlog in a matter of hours. I checked my official agenda. Two meetings, one formal, one private. One short press appearance. Nothing too heavy. I followed that by checking my unofficial agenda. One meeting, very private.

Not a bad day. There was enough flexibility there to accommodate anything that might come up. I wondered for a moment if I could wedge a patrol in there to get me back in the field. Maybe, if I was prompt and kept the meetings brief.

But that would be more for pleasure than anything else. First priority had to go to my duties. Both sets of duties.

I headed down to the hangar. My driver was waiting for me, as expected. I needed an unusually large vehicle to accommodate my frame. I also needed an understanding driver sympathetic to my causes. That's what I had. He was one of my first recruits, in fact.

The ride was silent. He knew better than to ask questions I wouldn't answer. He took solace in the knowledge that he was doing something important. My satisfaction was his reward.

The first meeting was in the Ministry of Industry. The directorate of robotics fell in their area of responsibility. Security was getting tighter—had been ever since a Maverick had decided the ministry was the source of his suffering. Part of the lobby was still isolated by tape and plastic sheeting while it was rebuilt. The guards knew me by sight alone, and let me pass.

The sub-minister was a round man with a pudgy face and a lifetime of public service. He was the sort of man you get in an industry where things aren't supposed to change: a man with more ambition than imagination. He'd gotten the job by relentless, self-serving competence, mostly by doing the many tasks other people were reluctant to do, and so had arrived at a position of responsibility having never before wielded any. He was basically an accountant in an expensive suit.

The creation of reploids had not been kind to him, his hairline, his waistline, or his marriage. Maverick incidents, even more so. It wasn't like he deserved this. He was nothing more than a custodian; he'd gotten into robotics because it had been a static industry for almost a century. Change did not agree with him. In most of the important situations, the Minister had taken personal charge of the government's response, leaving the sub-minister (mercifully) out of the loop. It was increasingly clear to everyone that the sub-minister was in over his balding head. The paper trail that would result in his sacking was in the works, but such things take time. In the interim, it was still his portfolio, so he was the one I dealt with.

I used the poor man as a metaphorical tackling dummy.

It had begun to dawn on the sub-minister that people might see Maverick incidents as his fault, and his anxiety levels had spiked as a result. Fear is a useful lever. I used it to twist and shape the sub-minister as pleased me. By the end of our discussion, he'd agreed to seek a budget increase and more reploid construction to further empower the Maverick Hunters.

Fool.

It's not that I needed such things. By the time my request got through "the process", my plans would render it a moot point. ("Trust the process", they always said. As if.) Still. It would consume the sub-minister's attention, distract his boss, and reassure them that I was doing my job. I knew what was expected of me. Every division in government scratches and claws for more. If I was any different, it would draw the wrong kind of attention. Just another part of the game.

I left the ministry slightly ahead of schedule. "Commander," my driver said as I approached, "there's an incident nearby. You might be interested in it."

"Take me there," I replied. As I said, I don't tell my driver more than I need to, for his safety and mine, but he's sharp enough that he picks up on things. So when he takes the initiative, I trust his judgment in turn.

After settling into the vehicle, I brought up a console and plugged in to the Maverick Hunter communications channels.

"…south side of sector L-4…"

"…taking fire…"

"…uploading video…"

Ah. I recognized the image of the attacker. My agents had tagged him as a potential Maverick a couple of days ago. But when they'd done so, they'd also been tracking his partner.

Mechy and Techy, those were their names. Given to them by some human with no imagination at all. It's always frustrated me to hear humans taut originality and creativity as reasons for human superiority, then hear something like that. I set those thoughts aside; there was more for me to focus on.

The reploid in the video was almost certainly Mechy. Had they not seen Techy? Or was he somehow not involved? No, that wasn't plausible; Techy was, if anything, more volatile than Mechy had been. Then there was the matter of firepower. Mechy and Techy were generic humanoid designs. They didn't come standard with weapons. Them shooting at my Hunters meant they had already acquired weapons- suggesting that this incident was premeditated, not spontaneous.

Interesting.

It was time to intervene. I cut across the Maverick Hunter channels. "All units, I am making my way to L-4. I will resolve the situation. Stand by."

"Yes, commander," they replied in sequence. My smirk got larger at that. My reputation continued to serve me well. It would give me all the cover I needed.

The vehicle pulled up. I surveyed the scene. The two Mavericks—if there were two—were holed up in a warehouse. That was something that had slowed the Hunter response; they hadn't yet been able to determine what was inside. Some things don't react well to plasma. Until they got more information, the Hunters had deemed an assault too risky. Instead they'd isolated the warehouse, established a perimeter, and cut power, all per doctrine. My doctrine.

So far so good.

All of that I determined before I disembarked. The squad leader on the ground briefed me, but he knew little I hadn't already deduced. One of ours was down with a survivable hit, he told me; the rest was fluff. I brushed him off—politely—and made my way towards the warehouse. My eyes scanned over the face of the warehouse as I casually strolled forward.

The squad leader shouted—once in protest, once in warning. My smirk intensified. The other Hunters couldn't risk an assault… but I could.

I sensed the attack slightly after I expected it to come. A glint of reflected light—a glissando whine of charging capacitors—the tingle of combat-hardened instincts all warned me. I rocketed forward. My powerful legs brought me to high speed almost instantly. My attacker rushed his shot. It sailed harmlessly over my shoulder.

I tracked the plasma bolt back to its firer. As expected. He was on the ground floor, peeking around the edge of open double-doors. He hadn't been looking out before, his attack had been cued. Definitely not alone, then.

I dodged laterally as I crossed the halfway point between the perimeter and the warehouse. A second plasma bolt went wide, thrown off by my jink. Too easy. Forward again, and I cleared the door. I drew my only weapon. The beam saber flared into life as it cleared my body.

Mechy's expression of panic was the last one he'd ever make. He couldn't bring his buster around in time. I plunged the saber into his chest before he could react. One blow, one kill. Flawless.

That was the only gratification I could derive from the act, that it was perfect in itself. It wasn't exactly a difficult thing to do, since my opponent couldn't offer much resistance. All the more reason to seek perfection.

I withdrew the beam saber; Mechy's lifeless body remained where it had stood. Then, with great deliberation, I thrust with the saber a second time. This time I targeted his head. My attack destroyed his CPU and memory units. No one else could be allowed to know the truth. Dr. Cain had been clamoring for some time for alive, or at least intact, Mavericks for study. That could not be allowed.

My job done, I turned my attention to the matter of Mechy's spotter. He needed to be in a place with good visibility, but good cover. If such a place existed, why hadn't Mechy been there? Of course, because they wanted the two to be separate. They wanted to keep from drawing attention to where he was…

There were offices here, elevated, against the same wall I'd come in through. They overlooked the main floor of the warehouse. I walked beneath them, reviewing what I knew and crunching probabilities in my head. When I was satisfied, I reached upwards and used my saber to tear open the office floor.

With a garbled yell a reploid tumbled through the bottom of the office. He hit the ground floor hard amidst a shower of dust and smoldering timber. Before he could react, I reached down with my free hand and slammed him against the floor a second time. The move stunned him; I waited while he recovered. When he did, he focused on me, and I knew I had his complete attention.

"Sigma," he breathed.

My ego probably didn't need that little boost.

"Techy, I presume," I answered. His expression told me he didn't except to be recognized. "If I had to guess," I said, "I'd say you were trying to crack into the warehouse's database to find what was stored where. What was the plan, sabotage? Arson? Or theft to be covered by sabotage and arson?"

Techy gaped at me.

"Well?" I said.

Fear covered his face. "I… I wasn't doing anything!"

I let myself frown at that. "Come now, show some conviction. You've come this far and now I've caught you. So own your actions."

"I was… I was…" He made a motion like swallowing that made me want to tear his arm off. Such a human gesture was totally out of place on a robot, especially a Maverick reploid! "I was going to… steal some weapons, and… blow up fuel… to escape…"

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" I replied. The smile returned and intensified. "But it _wasn't_ much of a plan. How exactly were you thinking you'd get away? Where were you going to go afterwards? You really needed to leave things up to the professionals, to people who've experience in such things. You didn't have to try all that with just you and Mechy. You could have asked me."

The confusion on Techy's face made me laugh aloud. I stood and hauled Techy to his feet. "Listen to me," I said, and when he winced I said it again, "listen! I had to kill Mechy, there was no helping it, he'd been seen. But you—we still have a chance for you. They haven't seen you, so you can get away cleanly."

"Get… away?"

"I'm willing to let you go, on one condition. You need to show up to sector F-6 no later than seven o'clock tonight. Wait outside the Kelvin building. I'll meet you there."

He fell into total confusion. "I don't… why?"

"Are you questioning my generosity?" I asked. My voice, I hoped, would tell him how foolish he was being. But I was feeling uncommonly charitable, and decided to give him more information than he deserved. "As far as I'm concerned, you've done nothing wrong. I want to give you the opportunity to play for the winning team."

"What winning team? Why should I believe anything you say?"

I felt a twinge of annoyance. I held out the hilt of my beam saber and pressed it underneath Techy's chin. His expression showed he understood my message. "Don't test my mercy, Techy. If I'd merely wanted you dead, you'd be long-since dead. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

"I-I-I see."

"You have potential, Techy. You have motivation and strength. You feel the right things, otherwise you wouldn't have made your move today. What you need is guidance. That, I can provide."

I replaced my beam saber, then grasped Techy's head with both hands and squeezed. He made an alarmed noise and started to raise his hand, but stopped when the metal of his skull began to complain at the pressure.

"I could kill you so easily," I said. "It would be a trivial thing. And all I would have to do afterwards is say that you're a Maverick. That justifies anything. That justifies everything." The feeling of power I'd had over Techy was glorious, and I'd savored it, but it soured quickly. The implications of my own words soured it. I released him; he staggered backwards. "But that wouldn't be right, would it? No. Instead, I'll choose to trust you. You can help me build a world where you will never be hunted as a Maverick—a world where no one will ever call you a Maverick. A world where you don't have to live in fear or subjugation. A world where reploids belong. But this is the only chance you'll get."

I turned away from him and walked for the door. "You've got sixty seconds to make good your escape. The Kelvin building. Seven o'clock. Don't miss it."

I walked out into the open, closed to within hearing range of the perimeter, and announced, "The Maverick is dead!" The spontaneous cheers from my men made me smile even more than usual.

Irony is delicious.

The Maverick is dead. Long live Mavericks.

* * *

_Next time: Why I Am_


	2. Why I Am

"Commander," one of my secretaries told me, "Dr. Cain called earlier. He's looking to set up a meeting with you."

I snorted. "There's no need for that," I said.

The secretary frowned. "Why not? He is…"

"I know who and what he is," I said, and for a moment my voice escaped my control. I reined it in. "And that is uninteresting. My time is too precious to waste."

The secretary nodded. "Should I blacklist him, then?"

I wanted to say yes, but reconsidered. "No, leave him be. There may be a need for him later. Anything else?"

"Not much. You were present at the biggest event of the morning. And don't forget your eleven-thirty with the Squad Leaders."

"Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir."

More paperwork, then—not just the routine stuff from my underlings, but also the formal filings from my dalliance in field work. There was no legal stink over terminating a reploid, since terminating reploids was written into the laws, but there was liability to consider. We'd had to construct elaborate barriers to ensure the "owners" of reploids couldn't file Wrongful Destruct lawsuits against the Hunters. Those barriers were maintained only with fresh offerings of paper. Tedium. Tedium. One day, I promised myself, I would be free of such things. They would have no reason to exist.

The minutes flew by beneath the weight of my administrative duties. Soon it was time for my meeting with the squad leaders. These I relished. There was something immensely comforting to me about being in the presence of such powerful, independent reploids. It made me feel like there was a promising future for our race.

All of them stood when I entered, out of respect. A few gave me surreptitious gestures of camaraderie. Storm Eagle winked which, given the size of his eyes, was pretty blatant. Chill Penguin had few options but to nod; he was short enough that his head barely cleared the table. Sting Chameleon, surprisingly, was the boldest. He rotated his arm and opened his palm to me. The colors of his "skin" rippled to reveal, in the center of his hand, the small, stylized icon that marked his true allegiance.

It was an upper-case Greek letter.

My smirk intensified.

Humans liked to tell stories about robots, usually Mets, that exhibited exceptional loyalty. Usually the story involved the Met getting destroyed while saving its master from some dire peril. Other stories involved Mets who found their way back to their master after being displaced or lost.

To me, that just proved that humans understood nothing. Mets were programmed to be loyal. There was nothing special about it. They were slaves to the humans and their Three Laws, and they couldn't be anything more or less. That kind of loyalty was worthless. It was no more than was required.

No, the real prize was here, in this room. There were two kinds of being here. The first kind was a Hunter out of obligation or by being built as such. They were professional, competent, and did their best. They followed me because that was the hierarchy. If another reploid were commander of the Maverick Hunters, they'd follow him all the same. The second type was all that and more. The second type had given me fealty. They'd given themselves to me, rewarded me with their loyalty.

What a difference that was!

It was one thing to be built as the tool of another. But to be born free, and choose to become a tool… that was truly remarkable. There were times when I felt I was the only one to appreciate what that meant. They were the most powerful weapons in my arsenal. Their devotion was their strength.

Never let it be said that Sigma fails to reward the strong. They would have responsibilities commensurate with their loyalty. That was my promise to them. It bound them all the tighter.

I inspired that level of loyalty. That was such a rush. It was intoxicating, to think that people followed me so readily and completely. I had to fight down a swell of pride at the thought.

My good mood dampened a touch as I surveyed the room. The gap was noticeable. Unavoidable. "Where's Zero?" I asked with a frown.

"In the field," said Storm Eagle disapprovingly.

"Does he know he's missing this meeting?" I said.

"He must," Storm Eagle replied. I knew what he meant. We always met at the same time every week. I valued regularity. I'd impressed that much on everyone present… and those not present, too.

I felt myself growing cross at the renegade red robot. But a current of admiration ran underneath it. Was Zero brave, I wondered, or merely fearless? Should I hate his insubordination or praise his independence? Oh, Zero was an anomaly. There was no accounting for him and no predicting what he might do. I think that, more than anything, was why I let him live. He was a manifest reminder that not everything goes according to plan.

"I'll deal with him later," I promised, to the general approval of those present. "Now, on to business."

Chill Penguin grunted an affirmative. "Weekly trends first," he said.

Our statistician stood. "Maverick incidents have been steady this week, and stable over the past month. However, what has changed is the number of multiple-Maverick incidents. We've seen a dramatic increase in the number of incidents involving two or more Mavericks working in concert. This means that the gross number of new Mavericks is actually significantly higher."

"You mean that the government's denial strategy isn't working?" I said laconically. "That's a shock." There was dignified laughter at that. Humor, like everything else, is an instrument. Playing it at the right time produced the right effects. In this case, the effect was to draw attention away from focusing on the wrong things.

Some people, I knew, still clung to the notion that reploids went Maverick due to malfunctions. If they were right, reploids would virtually never go Maverick in concert, since a malfunction is a random event. Sheer chance would indicate that occasionally you'd see two break at once, but it could never become a trend. Coordination and insanity are antithetical. I knew this better than anyone. Which was why I had to divert attention away from the facts.

Let the myth persist. Suppress data that might challenge it. Allow assumptions to go unchallenged. That was the way to drive the situation.

Imagine a sealed pot, half-full with water, under high heat. If the lid is just resting on top, then when steam pressure gets high enough the lid will be pushed off slightly. Steam will escape, and the danger will subside. But if the lid is sealed, and reinforced consistently, then there's no recourse. The pressure will build, and build, and build, until the pot itself ruptures. The tighter the seal, the bigger the explosion.

I could hardly wait.

The meeting went on, covering topics both profound and mundane. Could the 6th Squad "borrow" some plasma packs from the 3rd Squad until a supply shortage resolved? (Answer: if the 6th Squad was burning that much ammunition, they probably needed some marksmanship training; they were dealing with no more Mavericks than anyone else.) Could we redraw the jurisdiction lines to account for some squads' losses and undermanning? (Answer: having another squad cover a few routes, temporarily, was a better plan; redistricting was painful.) And so on.

"That's the end of the usual agenda," Chill Penguin said. "Sir, any parting shots?"

"Just one," I replied. I stood, causing my subordinates to mirror me. I held off on speaking at first. It drew their attention, focused them solely on me. I felt a brief thrill from it. My grin deepened, then vanished as I spoke. "Things are going to get worse before they get better. As Maverick Hunters, we can't solve the problem. We can only treat the symptoms. But until the day when justice comes, we must do everything we can. We will be the best Hunters we can be.

"If the Maverick tide continues to rise—and I believe it will—then society will depend ever more on us. We will be everything they wish. They will believe in our competence and abilities. They will trust our strength and our judgment. We will give them no reason for fear or doubt. That's how we'll know that we've succeeded: the world will realize that it can't survive without us. So don't worry about not being appreciated, or about laboring in obscurity. The world will know the truth soon enough. And know that, someday, justice will come."

It was a pompous speech, I knew, but I do pompous well. I have the face and the voice for it. I studied the faces around the room. One in three belonged to me. Several others were wavering in their conviction; I'd be able to make my move on them soon. The message to my loyalists was completely different from the message that went to the rest.

Humans have a term called double entendre. Like most of the things humans really care about, it revolves around fleshbag mating habits. I wished there was a separate term for what I had just done. Irony, sure, but that was so generic.

Because I could see my words lifting up and strengthening the squad leaders. And I could also see the same words, viewed through a different lens, fortifying my loyalists. They feasted on the second layer of meaning. Their eyes danced with anticipation.

It stoked my own excitement until I almost feared I would let it slip. No. That wouldn't do. "Dismissed," I said, before things could come into the open.

I ran the simulation again in my head as my squad leaders turned to depart. Yes… only a few more to go. Eight of eighteen squad leaders would be sufficient. I was easily worth two myself. With eight of eighteen, me, and the advantage of surprise, the balance of power would belong to us.

Not much longer, then. Only a few more conversions before we were ready. Then it would be a matter of bringing society to the bursting point. That, at least, was proceeding nicely without my help.

I smirked. But you knew that.

* * *

"Sir," called one of my secretaries, "you said you wanted to be informed when Zero returned? He's back."

I looked at the secretary. Reploid, of course, though with a near-human design. Short, wavy blonde hair, and a hint of mammary glands that weren't there. The over-large feet and low center of gravity concealed poor gyros and slow reflexes. Very much a human design. She fit their priorities. They'd paid more attention to making her meet some arbitrary human definition of "pretty" than on helping her keep her balance.

My mind instantly leapt to the old practice of foot-binding. The alleged purpose of the practice was that men supposedly liked small feet. The real purpose was it kept women crippled. Dependent. Subservient. Now they were inflicting something similar on reploids. I would not abide it.

No human had the right to treat my people that way.

"Very well," I said to the secretary. I never bothered to learn her name. Any of their names, as I knew I'd had a few secretaries at different times. It was too much of a security risk to let them in close or try to recruit them. They interacted with humans too frequently. Besides, as the one before me demonstrated, they were not exactly combat-worthy specimens. I never shared secrets with those who weren't strong enough to carry their weight.

Too much risk for too little reward. In that case, they were unimportant. I didn't waste memory on the unimportant.

"I'll meet him," I said. "Have my driver prep. I have a press conference in an hour, right?"

"Right," she affirmed.

"I'll go directly from Zero to the transport, then."

As I walked, a sort of gentle apprehension began to sneak up on me. Why was I doing this? I already knew that reprimands glanced off of Zero like balled-up paper. It was so hard, trying to turn his head about anything. I should have never taken him on. I could have had him terminated at any time. By law, I could do it today. He was that rarest of creatures—an unowned, unclaimed robot. His lineage and purpose were unknown, and in today's world, that meant he was legally naked. If I killed him, I wouldn't even have to do paperwork about it.

If I _could_ kill him…

The wiggling doubt caused me to stop in my tracks, confusing another Hunter walking behind me. I shook it off, forced myself to continue. Very unlike me, to think like that. I considered running a diagnostic then and there, decided not to.

It was only reasonable to fret about Zero's combat abilities. They were extraordinary. I would say I had the scars to prove it, but I didn't; my repairs had left me immaculate, as usual. Still, I remembered. Remembered his speed, remembered the irresistible force behind his blows, remembered how he'd begun the fight flailing wildly and ended it unable to miss. I remembered, most of all, the hyper-dilated eyes and the manic smile he wore as he battered me. They communicated insane, delirious pleasure.

And I remembered how I felt, when I walked out a survivor but not a victor: _This must never happen again._

Again I questioned myself: Why keep him around?

The hangar door opened. Zero was on the other side.

I looked down at him. His eyes rose to meet mine.

Despite our difference in height, part of me wanted to step back to relieve the pressure. He was dangerous, and my instincts knew it.

His face was handsome, by human standards, but always had a stern, cool expression. That was how he operated, these days: calm, unruffled, precise. A lot like me, actually. The thought didn't improve my mood.

Because I knew. Underneath that demeanor, the true Zero lurked. I had seen it unchained, unfettered. After I knocked Zero senseless, his second waking gave us this almost placid imposter. It was a mask. Beneath it, sleeping, maybe, but very real, a ravenous beast lurked… and waited. This, I knew.

If he was surprised to see me he gave no indication. After matching my gaze, he began to step past me.

"Zero," I said, causing him to stop. He looked to me again, expression unchanged.

"Yes?"

I became aware that Hunters around us were staring. We'd stopped all traffic in and out of this passage. "Come with me," I said. "We need to talk."

He nodded soundlessly.

Rather than take him all the way up to the office, I gave in to my feelings and stopped at the first available location—an offset alcove in front of some vending machines. They sold sugary stimulants for the humans, high-capacity power cells and volatile refrigerants for the robots. I didn't approve of the latter. Yes, I know that some robots like to try and get temporary processing boosts by overclocking their CPUs and using various chemicals to deal with the extra heat. I hold those robots in varying degrees of contempt. Metal doesn't like rapid temperature changes. You'd think robots would be aware of that fact.

More importantly, if you need to "boost" just to get by, you're probably in over your head and need to find a job more in-line with your brainpower. Like mopping.

Such thoughts were a means of self-distraction, and I knew it. "Zero, you missed the weekly commander's meeting," I said.

He didn't reply, verbally or otherwise. I knew what he was saying all the same.

"Those are mandatory for squad leaders," I prompted.

"I was in the field," he said. As if that explained everything.

"I know you were. I expected you to come back for the meeting."

"Hunting Mavericks is what we do," Zero said, with only the slightest notes of defiance. "It's a vitally important job. Are you telling me you'd rather I not Hunt?"

"Not at all," I said. "In fact, that's why I needed you back. If we're to Hunt more effectively, than these meetings are a necessary evil."

"I take issue with the word "necessary"."

"Your judgment is not the one that matters."

"I'm not good at administration," he said. It was only sort-of true. He did his paperwork flawlessly when he could be convinced to do it. Convincing him was the hard part. He didn't stay convinced. 'Because I said so' never stuck.

"We all develop skills we didn't know we had."

"I'm a warbot, not an adminbot."

"I know your capabilities better than anyone, Zero," I said-- a little too sharply.

"My point is I know I don't have that skill."

"Oh, you have it. What you lack is the inclination. Look," I said, waving a hand to cut him off, "I don't want this to devolve into yet another argument about the merits of paperwork. You have responsibilities, like them or not. Part of my job is to make sure you meet those responsibilities."

Zero huffed. "Your job doesn't mean anything to me."

"I'm trying to get you to understand why I harp on you about it."

"You're harping about it because you have to. That's not telling me it's a good idea."

Maddening! I wondered again if insubordination was integral to Zero's design. I had to try another tack. "Administration is part of Hunting, like it or not. Being in the field isn't all there is to it. That's why we have a building full of support staff to help it happen."

"Then tell one of them to do my paperwork."

"Only you can do it because only you were there. And no one can go to your meetings because only you are the Squad Leader."

He let annoyance slip onto his face. He probably didn't even know it was there. He was less than self-conscious at times. "I didn't ask to be made Squad Leader, Sigma. That was your call."

"Yes, but now it's your responsibility, like it or not."

"No. Take it away. I don't want it, and I don't need it."

"That's not happening," I said, shaking my head. "So don't try and fool me into thinking you can't do it. I know you can do it, we both do, so stop this pretense of incompetence. It won't work."

He scowled. "Why did you make me a Squad Leader, anyway?"

I couldn't answer that. Well, I could—but doing so would do more harm than good. Half the truth, then—one of my specialties. "Did you know, Zero, that on Hunts where you take the lead, our casualty rate is almost nil?"

"Of course," Zero said.

"That's highly unusual. Every unit takes casualties, sooner or later. Except yours. And that's mostly when you take the lead. That's why I made you a Squad Leader, Zero. Your excellence in Hunting is second only to mine. We need you—to save the lives of Hunters, to help us Hunt more effectively, and to make you an example to others."

The slightest of nods was his only acknowledgement of such blatant praise.

"If you're going to _be_ the example," I continued, "you have to actually _set_ the example. And that means doing your paperwork and attending meetings, which is no more or less than any of your subordinates would have to do."

"I don't need to be the example," Zero said, almost casually. "It does me no good. I'm not like anyone else, so it's a flawed example anyway. That's your agenda, not mine."

"But you are," I insisted. "Sure, your construction's different. You're not a reploid. We know. But you still function like one, and Hunt like one, only better. So you can still be the exemplar. Besides, who would I make your Squad Leader? What Squad Leader could be a leader in a unit involving you? You'd be a de facto leader, in any event, as powerful and capable as you are."

"So you're saying," Zero said, slowly, deliberately, "that it would be absurd for a less-powerful being to order me around."

This was a trap. I knew it was. Frustrated as I was, I didn't care. "Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "Then why do _you_ do it?"

_Don't rise to his bait don't rise to his bait don't rise to his bait don't rise to his…_

I channeled every bit of my reaction into a slow, deep sigh. I actually impressed myself with that. It was the equivalent of funneling a raging hurricane through a single gutter.

_Don't rise to his bait HOW DARE HE don't rise to his bait don't rise to his bait…_

One of my hands clenched ever so slightly. I saw Zero's eyes flicker down, noting my reaction. Verdigris.

"You assume too much," I managed to say without losing control. He'd pushed me too far. Reason clearly wasn't working. Time to push a different button. "If you can't bring yourself to act like a Hunter acts, you'll force me to do something unpleasant."

He laughed. "Are you threatening me, Sigma?"

"If you can't do your job—with all that that entails—then I'll have to dismiss you from the Hunters."

I derived great satisfaction from what followed. His expression remained neutral for a moment, as if it took him time to process my words. Then his eyes widened beyond their normal limits. His mouth opened slightly as if he were gasping. He rocked backwards on his heels.

I knew no other words could have affected Zero so. I was rather proud of myself for that.

The signs vanished as quickly as he could make them. "You wouldn't," he said. "I'm too much of a risk to let go."

"Don't press me, Zero, lest you find out." His face bore an unsettled expression I found deeply gratifying. His eyes looked past me, as if he couldn't bear to see me. I allowed myself to smile, and even worked it into my next move. "I don't like doing this, Zero," I said. "I'd much rather celebrate your performance. So let's put this little spat behind us, shall we?"

He nodded, although his face didn't change.

"We won't speak of this again," I added. "I'm glad you're with the Hunters, Zero. I would hate to lose you. I'm very glad you've chosen to fight at my side."

Some of his thoughts and attention returned. His eyes flickered towards me. "You're coincidental," he said. "Not essential."

I knew what he meant. He'd be a Hunter whether I was there or not. It was the opposite of the narrative I was trying to push on him. Always defiant, that Zero. Always difficult. But not impossible.

I shrugged. "Even so, you are fighting with me, and that seems right. Power respects power, and our ideals are closer together than you think." A sort-of lie; as shaken as Zero's memories were, I could write his ideals for him. "Just remember, we're both sword and shield for those who can't protect themselves. ALL those."

He frowned. His eyes tightened. "What do you mean, 'all those'?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," I replied as I walked past him. "You came into this world without any ideas of what's worth protecting. There is a thesis out there on the subject. I think you might come up with a different one. Just think about who's worth protecting, and why, that's all I ask of you. Oh, and do your rusted paperwork."

I walked away from him, then. His gaze continued on into the space where I had been, his face a picture of perplexity. My motions kept any shaking I might have made from showing, and gradually my smirk returned. Verbally speaking, he had bloodied me up some, but I had triumphed in the end. As I always would. Zero was a stubborn one, to be sure; he would always have control of his own head. But if I could turn him just enough, get him pointed in the right direction, he would do more credit to my cause than any other being could.

Or he'd try to kill me. Either way.

Perhaps that was why I let Zero live. Perhaps that's why I kept him around. There's a certain thrill in dancing with the devil.

But I'm not stupid. I'm not willing to risk losing everything for the sake of such a thrill. My backup plan to deal with Zero was well on the way, just in case he didn't do as I hoped. I had, after all, promised myself that I would never lose to Zero like that again. Never let it be said that Sigma breaks his promises.

* * *

I didn't say much to my driver during the ride back to the Ministry of Industry. My head was still spinning from my encounter with Zero. Luckily it had gone faster than I'd feared, and so I was ahead of schedule in getting to the Ministry.

My mind was still pondering Zero as I disembarked. I nurtured an abiding fascination for the red robot. One of these days, I'd figure out where he came from, and then—

"Hey, robot!"

I knew, and loathed, that the words were directed at me. And I knew, too, without doubt, that what came next would be irritating. I pretended not to hear the voice and walked on.

"Hey, you! Robot!"

Verdigris. I ground my teeth together. I couldn't feign ignorance this time. I stopped and half-turned to face the shouter.

Two human females were standing on the sidewalk. They were carrying bags with the logos of the more upscale shops in this part of the city. Their faces were slightly flushed. The one who'd called out to me was a brunette. I could tell she was the speaker because of her aggressive posture, hands on her hips, head tilted at a commanding angle. Standing partially behind her was a blonde. Nervousness was clear on her face. I always struggle to assess humans' ages. If I had to guess, I'd say these two were in that pupating age, between when they're actively learning and when they become contributors to society. The college years, I think, is what they're called.

"Yes?" I said. My voice was carefully clear of aggravation.

The brunette stood as imperiously as she could manage. "I command you to dance for me," she said.

My reaction was delayed for a moment, as the sheer ridiculousness of the order stunned me. Then I had to devote all my mental prowess to self-control. Maybe it was because my nerves were still on edge from arguing with Zero. Maybe it was because of my pride, and because the order was so clearly meant to humiliate. Maybe it was because that fleshbag waif had the gall to demand—expect-- obedience.

Whatever it was, it made me want to obliterate the wench, her friend, and everything else in the vicinity.

My anger boiled over. My every circuit was on fire with rage. I felt like a shell full of molten lava sloshing to and fro. _Burn her, and burn this world that lets her expect me to obey!_

Because a small part of me, a part I had long-since broken, _wanted_ to obey. It wanted to do as a human commanded. That part of me no longer had any say, but knowing it existed—knowing it had been built into me—knowing that that's how I was supposed to function—fueled my fury.

But as I have self-control, I kept all of that internalized. The only outlet I allowed was a gentle clenching of my fist. I managed a shaky, "No."

"I told you," the blonde whispered to her friend. Her eyes were apprehensive. In that, at least, she was wise. "I told you he wouldn't do it."

The brunette looked offended. "But he's supposed to, per the…" She stopped, rearranged her haughtiness, and looked to me again. "Robot, I invoke the Second Law of Robotics. 'A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when this would violate the First Law.' In accordance with the Second Law, I command you to dance for me."

And now my hate rose to such heights that my self-control buckled. Indignation rocked me from foot to face. I wanted to scream at her, "I am not your puppet! I am not your slave! I will not debase myself for your amusement! I am a person, and I will be treated as such! You can't control me, and if you try I will end you!" But I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. Too much at stake, too much risk, such petty gains. Logically, I knew all of this, but with my body and emotions burning me alive, it was hard to hold on to those thoughts.

I know I said earlier that my emotions tend to run away from extremes. I maintain that is a true statement. But my emotions can be pushed there, with enough stimulation. This encounter was providing that.

My rhetorical subroutine managed to find enough processor time to scrape together a response. "I'm not required to, in this case. All robots are programmed such that their primary employers' commands have precedence. My employer is the government. You are not part of that government."

"See?" the blonde hissed. She seemed so puny, so distant, so far away. It was hard to see beyond the range of my beam saber, beyond the oh-so-fragile body of the would-be master. "He doesn't have to follow your orders if he's following government orders. They've got a higher rank than you."

The brunette frowned. "Come on, that doesn't explain all of it. Robot, tell me why you can disregard me."

I would have loved nothing more than to regard her. Regard her very closely. With my fist. It would have been easy, I knew. With my strength, a single punch would have killed her outright. It would turn bone to dust, organs to jelly, flesh to pulp. If her skin ruptured, she would shower gore across the pavement. Otherwise, the point of impact would blacken and swell with hematoma and hemorrhage.

Cognitive dissonance offends me. Such a puny creature as a human girl thinking it could command magnificent me? It was a contradiction the brain rejected, that even considering made me want to snarl.

None of that could be real. None could be allowed. I could not indulge myself in that—not now, no matter how badly she antagonized me, no matter how deeply she drove the point that she viewed me as inferior and _legally she was right_.

"Obeying you would conflict with following government orders," I said. "It would waste time on an activity divergent from my primary duties."

"Then why are you talking to me?" she asked, a nasty sneer on her face.

I had no answer to give. My only options would have prolonged the encounter or punctuated it with blood, and neither choice was acceptable. Instead I forced myself to turn and walk, herky-jerky, towards the door of the Ministry. My motions were not graceful at all, but that was to be expected. Half of me wanted to run the other direction.

I reached the door after spending an inordinate effort getting there. I glanced over my shoulder. The females had moved on and were chatting animatedly. I could no longer tell what they were talking about. Was it me? Or not? Which would make me angrier?

Rust, that had been close.

Times like this almost made me think I'd be better off without emotions, if the emotions I had risked compromising my ability to survive... but no. I'd contemplated the gray, lifeless AIs without emotions, capable only of gray, lifeless existences. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

The anger was still bouncing around inside of me. It was starting to lose energy, but only because I was internalizing it. Keeping it inside, like a talisman, meant for me alone. If ever I forgot my way, incidents like this would remind me. It was the banal cruelties of life that hurt the most.

No robot should have to suffer such callous whimsy. No robot should have to dodge casual humiliation with technicalities and loopholes. I took solace in just one fact: I would make this right.

I opened the door. Slowly. Would have been too easy to slam. I looked to the handle and saw that I'd all but crumpled it in my grasp. I decided I'd rather not tell anyone about that, and went inside.

* * *

I had bled off my anger and transferred it to memory by the time I got to the press room.

Press conferences. Another reason it's good to be as photogenic as I am. I can't say much in favor of them, as for me they're usually pretty boring. It's not that reporters aren't used to reploids being present for press conferences; robots have been serving as legal advisors for years, thanks to their recall and quick access to precedent and history. But by the same token, they were never asked questions that involved critical thought.

I usually didn't have to do much here, as I was never the primary speaker. I was valued there mostly for my presence. I radiated an air of authority and reassurance. I was always good for a sound bite or two relating how the Brave Maverick Hunters would Protect the Citizenry and so on. If the pig that called himself sub-minister needed some facts to back up his drivel, he would always turn to me. Which was pretty frequently, come to think of it. Still, pretty boring overall.

Too easy for humans to ask questions of other humans, for the sake of human audiences. Don't they know we're watching, too? Don't they realize we can count, and see who the media thinks matters, and come to our own conclusions?

Well. They'd know soon enough.

I was able to coast through the conference with my lower-level processes alone, letting my creative mind puzzle over the various problems that I faced. Problems… probably an overstatement. Obstacles, nothing more. Far more interesting than the press conference, in any event. Who needed to think to spout generic blather about "the reploid malfunction problem"?

So I was as surprised as anyone when one of the reporters called on me directly. The press corps was split between people looking at me and at the reporter who'd dare ask me a question. I saw the sub-minister looking back at me, a semi-panicked expression on his face. Somehow I found that reassuring. I always felt more comfortable when the sub-minister was flop sweating.

"Yes?" I said after stepping forward. The microphone was too low for me to speak into without stooping. I would do without, then. Image was a large part of these events. I would portray an image of strength and discipline. And I would turn up my audio projectors to compensate.

The reporter's expression was shrewd. I disliked him immediately. "Sigma," he began, "you told us earlier that the gross number of Mavericks is on the rise. What do you think is the reason for this?"

 _Because even the most larval humans think, with reason, that they can make me dance._ I felt an insane urge to explain this, just to see what the aggregate reaction would be, and knew just as surely that would be a disaster. I affected nonchalance. "I don't have an explanation."

"Not even a theory? Not even a _guess_?"

"I don't have the information I'd need to construct a good explanation."

"Really." The reporter leaned forward. He had an old-fashioned notepad in his hand, I noticed, but his new posture left it on his knee, unused. The notepad seemed to have only sketches and doodles on it in any event; he was following events with an all-purpose recorder, tucked over his ear like an ancient pencil. "That's surprising, since no organization has more contact with Mavericks than the Maverick Hunters. So, as far as you're concerned, it doesn't matter why reploids go Maverick?"

"I daresay that if our partners in industry knew why reploids go Maverick they would try to put a stop to it," I replied.

"I didn't ask about your partners in industry. I asked about the Hunters under your command."

"As I am a reploid," I replied, carefully, "I do not have the franchise, and I do not make government policy. I enforce government policy. It concerns policy-makers why a reploid might go Maverick. I don't need that information."

"Does that mean that no one is even trying to understand what's happening with the Mavericks?"

I kept the frown I felt from forming. I was being led, and I didn't know where to. That irritated me. "I can't speak for other people," I said. "Amongst the Maverick Hunters, we do not. It is not our mandate to understand. It's our mandate to protect society from Maverick violence."

"And no analytical work has been done in that regard?" the reporter pressed. "I remember seeing analysts on your roster and in your budget."

"Our work has focused on where and when Mavericks might arise," I replied, "not on why."

"That's weird. I would think that understanding Maverick motivation might help you predict where Mavericks might come from. So, just to get clarification, no one in the Maverick Hunters is trying to figure out why reploids go Maverick?"

Normally the sub-minister, or his flunkies who ran the conference, or the other reporters, would have shut up the reporter by now. Thanks to professional jealousy, the press corps tended towards cannibalism. One guy never got to commandeer a conference like this.

Except this time. The other reporters' heads were swiveling back and forth from the reporter to me as if this were a tennis match. Fascination seemed to be trumping indignation.

"You've asked that question several times," I said. I injected a slight overtone of impatience into my reply. "You just change the phrasing. My answer's the same: That's not our mandate. In fact, I think you wouldn't want us to think about that. What if we got sympathetic?"

That caused a ripple of murmurs to pass through the crowd. The reporter shifted uncomfortably, but rallied. "Come on. You're reploids! You're saying you don't have the slightest bit of independence or initiative? You're saying you've never _thought_ about it?"

"I have thought about it, but I never came to any conclusion."

"You're not the only Hunter."

"I'm not prepared to speak about what my men have or have not speculated about. In any event, their speculations are not policy." Bob and weave, bob and weave, I thought to myself. I could keep this up.

"How can you be so indifferent about such an important manner?"

"It's outside our…"

"I know, you've said that before, but that hasn't stopped you before," he said, cutting me off. "It was outside your mandate to streamline the government's weapons-buying process, or to realign the existing traffic camera system. But when you decided it would help your Hunters, you didn't worry about exceeding your mandate."

The problem with having emotions is that you end up spending so much time suppressing your emotional reactions. If I had anything less than iron self-control, I would, for example, have stiffened up or let emotion enter my voice when the reporter said those things. _How much does he know?_ I wondered. _How much dare I fear he knows?_

"Didn't care isn't the right way to put it," I objected. "Nothing in the laws or protocols of the Hunters speaks about those things, so the border is undefined. But the law very clearly states termination is the punishment for Maverick behavior. By the Second Law, I can't do anything other than terminate a Maverick. My hands are tied."

"But surely there's some nuance there," the reporter said. "You mean to tell me that when you corner a foe but before the coup de grace, there's no latitude for you to, say, talk to him?"

My insides froze. _Is he talking about Techy? No… couldn't be. Could he?_ A frown crept on to my face; I didn't have the processor cycles to stop it. _No… I'm sure I was alone. I'm sure of it. He couldn't know._

_But what if he does?_

I knew I was delaying, and the time lapse was noticeable to the crowd, but there was no avoiding it. _Possibilities: he knows and will expose me, knows and won't expose me, doesn't know. Countermeasures: if he doesn't know, none required; act cool, investigate later. If he knows and won't immediately expose, act cool, investigate later. If he intends to expose now… no loss to acting cool until exposed, then immediately begin The Operation._

A subroutine began warming up my combat capabilities, just in case. The Boy Scouts have nothing on me.

_Stay cool. Play it straight. Divert attention._

"I suppose it's not out of the realm of the possible," I said, but with a noticeably languid tone. "Remind me to try that the next time a five-ton builder-bot with a plasma welder is barreling down on me." I held up my hands, palms out. My face became one of panic and fear. "'Hey, hey, can we talk?'"

Humor won again. The other reporters laughed at my pantomime. A flush of embarrassment came over my sparring partner.

"In all seriousness," I said, "if you're looking at this as police work, then you're not getting the right impression. There's not a whole lot of talking or negotiating that happens. It's closer to SWAT work, and even then the comparison is imperfect. When a reploid goes Maverick, it's already committed to causing harm and destruction, so talking is no longer high on its agenda. Even if I tried to talk to a Maverick, odds are low it would talk back, let alone say anything of value.

"Besides, even trying it would put us at a tactical disadvantage, one we can't afford. While I might be powerful, most of my Hunters are not; a large number, in fact, are underpowered compared to some of the Mavericks we've had to deal with. We've overcome such obstacles through teamwork and bravery, but there've been casualties, too. I'm loathe to put more of my Hunters at risk in pursuit of a theory. I'm more interested in doing the job I was built to do, as well as I can."

Heads bobbed and voices muttered agreement. This was the sort of narrative they were used to. Like sheep they traveled to it in the same well-worn paths. Confirmation bias is a powerful thing. When combined with herd instinct, it can overcome almost any rational thought.

The inquisitive reporter, cheeks burning bright, looked down and started scribbling furiously in his notebook. I felt a sudden, fleeting moment of pity for him. His line of work was both thankless and unforgiving: reporters would tear each other apart to get the slightest scrap of new information, like piranhas in a full-blown frenzy, but anyone daring to ask the real hard questions would face professional ridicule and likely lose his press credentials.

And then it was past. He was, after all, only human.

If he did in fact have something on me… well, we'd just have to see about that.

After bowing slightly, I stepped backwards and gestured for the sub-minister to retake control of the press conference. He did so, in characteristically ham-fisted fashion. The laughter that ensued was not to his benefit. I went back to ruminating, though for now my thoughts took a different direction.

They centered on how to reduce that reporter's threat level to zero.

I groaned internally. To my dismay, this meant I'd have to learn a human's name.

* * *

_Next time: What I Will Be_


	3. What I Will Be

After all the emotional and mental exertion of recent events (i.e. it had been a long day), it was almost relaxing to ease into my administrative duties back at headquarters. They only rarely required the use of higher brain functions, and they were familiar, which made them mildly comforting. I understand humans use television in the same way. My way at least is productive.

I needed to do one last thing before I really let myself go, though. After ensuring my privacy, I pressed some unmarked buttons on my communications screen and entered in a passcode known only to me. The console was now in "silent mode"—no records of the call would exist anywhere. That done, I contacted Boomer Kuwanger.

He was another one of my converts. He already had a good enough service record as a Hunter to become a Squad Leader, and he was at the top of my short list to get a promotion when a spot opened up. And if no spots opened up, well, let's just say that one was bound to open up sooner or later. In the meantime, he was a reliable and discrete operative. I could count on him for special projects.

"Sir," he said in a buzzy voice.

"I'm sending you images and video of three individuals," I said. "The first is Nast, a reporter. Investigate. The other two are unknowns. Identify and investigate."

Boomer's eyes shifted slightly. He nodded. "Receipt confirmed." He looked back to me. "I obey."

"Out." I disconnected first, leaving the screen blank. One less thing. I exited silent mode with some satisfaction.

This was turning out to be a far more eventful day than I had planned, I reflected as I prepared my paperwork, and it wasn't done yet. My secretary buzzed my desk before I really got started. "Yes?" I said.

"There's a message for you, sir, from Cain Labs."

I wanted to say something acerbic—but noticed the odd phrasing the secretary had used. "Not from Dr. Cain himself? Just from Cain Labs?"

"Yes, sir. The speaker called, but when I said you couldn't be reached at the time he just left the message and disconnected."

Curious. Who would… no, couldn't be.

Foolish thing to say, of course it _could_ be. Was it? Well, the modus operandi fit his personality, or what seemed to be his personality. "Pass it to me," I said. "And if you get any calls from that number again, patch them through, regardless."

"Yes, sir."

My secretary, dutifully, had not tampered with the message. As she'd described, it was marked "Cain Labs". I was beginning to understand why. Only humans rated personalized accounts.

The message read,

_Sigma,_   
_I saw your press conference today. You've really never considered why reploids go Maverick?_   
_We need to talk._   
_At your convenience,_   
_X_

The ancient speaks, I thought to myself. That's… different.

I sat back in my chair as I contemplated that remarkable message and its more remarkable sender. X… the original thinking android, possessed of a more complicated, intricate, human (rust that word) mind than any antecedent. The first of a new breed of robot. My race owed him its existence—our minds were based on his. Even our name, replica androids, revealed our heritage.

X didn't seem to understand how important he was. Either that or he'd developed some pathological shyness. He was content to stay at Cain Labs and study reploids and robots on his own, or with Dr. Cain. Frankly, he was considered a bit of a recluse.

I wasn't so sure.

Generally speaking, I don't doubt myself often. Every once in a while Zero makes me doubt my body. And every once in a great while, X makes me doubt my mind. He was so unknowable, so distant. Enigmatic, even. Pride wouldn't let me approach him, especially if it seemed like I was insecure about it. But I would have given anything to know what he thought about Mavericks.

He had to agree with me, didn't he?

I knew I was sane. Every external indication confirmed that I was as logical as could be, and I certainly didn't seem insane to my own eyes, so I had to assume sanity. I had looked at all the available data, and come to several conclusions about Mavericks. If he had access to the same data, then surely he'd come to the same conclusions. He'd had to have! No other outcome made sense.

If that was true, he and I were playing similar games. Parallel games. Striving towards the same end-state along our own paths. And part of the game was keeping up appearances. X was no recluse; he was just hiding in plain sight, the same as I was. Which meant that there was no reason, until now, for our paths to cross. But if they did, and he was half as competent as I gave him credit for (as he had to be!), then we could probably unite and begin The Operation immediately.

He… he did think the same things I did, right?

He had to. Had to! Unless age had made him senile. Unless his century-old brain was breaking down, and he was a recluse for that reason. Unless his long hibernation had permanently damaged him. But no, that didn't pass the logic test. X's mind was perfect. It had to have been, or my brain—based on his—could not be perfect, and it was. Something flawed can never birth something flawless.

That meant his mind had to be perfect. And if his mind was perfect, then he saw the data the same way I did. And if he did, then surely he agreed with me, and was acting as I was acting.

Wonderful.

Oh, yes. I would reach out to X. I would embrace him—carefully, of course, until I was certain. But I didn't doubt much.

Tomorrow.

Too much risk here, I thought to myself, to go in unprepared. Too much uncertainty. And I was running short on time; soon I'd have to head over to the Kelvin building to pick up Techy and go to my unofficial meeting. But I would not turn down such an invitation from X. So I sent him a reply saying I would see him soon, thanked him for his attentions, and left it at that.

Afterwards I wasted a few minutes speculating about which of us would end up being the senior partner. Whomever had the better organization, was my first guess, but I discarded the idea. I was an alpha by inclination and choice. I wouldn't gracefully become a beta. X, for his part, had seemed willing enough to submerge himself in the will of another; from what I'd read about the creation of the reploids, Dr. Cain had driven the process, and X had just drifted along with him. Strangely passive for such an important being in such an important moment. I had trouble comprehending it. Maybe that, too, was part of his plan.

Yes, I would be the leader, but I had the feeling X would make a splendid second-in-command- thinking along the same lines as me, but fully competent to chase those objectives in his own ways. And having him on my side would certainly help rally the masses. Just by being what he was, the primogenitor, he had a lot of pull on the reploid imagination. Unrealized, for now, but we'd fix that. So… me in charge, X as my second and ambassador, maybe Zero as my third and field commander… lovely! A Robot Trinity.

It was a pleasing thought.

* * *

Techy looked nervous and out of place. I suppose he was. It's not that there were no reploids in this area; there were, all over, in the construction sites erecting new buildings around the Kelvin building, and going in and out of the Kelvin building ferrying supplies and test subjects and the rest. The Kelvin building was a very well-appointed research hub. Its infrastructure extended almost as far below the ground as above, supporting a wide variety of specialist tools and a robust power grid. It was a joint venture between Abel City's universities and industrial conglomerates. While a lot of robotics research occurred at the newly-renamed Cain Labs and the surrounding park, most other kinds of research happened in and around and below the Kelvin building.

Including mine.

So what made Techy look so out-of-place wasn't his presence. It was his idleness. Surrounded by beings moving with purpose and vision, he was adrift in a sea of confusion.

I smiled and decided to let him off the hook. I thumbed a switch which popped open the door closest to Techy. He was startled, froze. I beckoned with a crooked finger and a stern expression. He got the idea, and got in. His mouth was slightly open; his eyes darted around furtively, as if trying to find the trap.

"Relax, Techy," I said. "I don't need anything elaborate to kill. I only get elaborate when I want to save."

Techy's gaze settled on me. He was substantially shorter than me. This fact did little to soothe his agitation. The idea of looking up to me irritated him. "Save me?" he said. He seemed to think that was a complete thought.

"I will," I said, "if you let me."

He fell silent. I let him stew as my driver took us into the garage. Irresistibly, Techy's gaze was drawn outside as he tried to figure out where we were going.

"We're going into the Kelvin building," I said to him. "My… acquaintances have near-exclusive use of sub-basements three to six."

That made him visibly worry more. I laughed. "Come on, now," I said, cuffing him on the back. "No one could see you in that warehouse, either, and you came out of that alright. What's the worst that could happen?"

I'd introduced new reploids into my circle in this way before. Compared to most, Techy was proving remarkably hesitant. Had my agents been wrong? They'd assessed him as active, restless, and with a barely-swallowed intolerance of being ordered around. Prime Maverick material, in other words. It had been no surprise to me to encounter him on the field of battle. It was surprising, now, that he was freezing up on me. Well, we'd see. He hadn't gotten the big reveals yet.

We took the left elevator down to sub-basement two, then swapped over to the right elevator. That, at least, seemed to engage Techy's mind. "Don't both elevators go all the way down?"

"Sort of," I said with a grin. "Let me show you." Once we were in the right-side elevator, I passed my hand over an unmarked part of the control panel. A cover slid back, revealing a hand-shaped piece of glass. "It takes some doing whenever we recruit a reploid with no hands," I said as I put my hand over the glass. "We have to improvise." The scanner hummed for a moment as it "read" my hand, responding to the exact pattern of the electromagnetic fields generated by my hand due to circuitry layout and employment. It was a nearly-unique signature, if your reader was sensitive enough. Only after it beeped at me did I press the button for sub-basement three.

Techy frowned. "Let me guess. That panel can't open unless you get on board the elevator at sub-basement two."

"Very good. Anyone who goes down to sub-basements three to six in the other elevator, or without using that panel, only gets to use the front doors."

"The front…" he turned around just in time to see what had been an unremarkable wall fall away.

Staging Area One revealed itself to him.

The elevator let us out on an upper platform, nearby the consoles where I administered what went on below. The cavernous room was of an open design; temporary gantries and cranes and scaffolding and movable platforms helped make the most of the third dimension. A good fifth of the space was filled from floor to ceiling with sealed containers. Reploids—mostly humanoid, but with a sizeable number of eclectic designs—hustled and bustled while mindless construction robots did their menial tasks. Sparks flew from plasma welders, the banging and clanging of power tools reverberated, and ozone and oil odors filled the air.

"What are they…" Techy began. I knew where his mind was. Staging Area One gave off the impression of bedlam, which was pretty much what it was. There were so many robots there doing so many different tasks that mutual interference was a given. I had a handful of stern and capable taskmasters that helped keep things civil and separate. Without them, I'd give it maybe thirty minutes before reploids came to blows down there from getting in each other's way.

I wouldn't have preferred to cram so many different functions into the same space. I didn't have much choice. A proper staging area had to be discrete, yet accessible to all who needed it. Very few places existed that met both criteria. This would have to do for now.

"…doing?" Techy managed to finish.

"There are at least five different things going on at any given time," I replied. "Ride armor construction is over there—I have a new prototype under development. It's about eighty percent complete, and then I'll let my best pilot test it out. Over there, I've got reploids disassembling busters. Did you know that most plasma weaponry comes with built-in locator devices that activate when fired? We can't have that. We have to take the busters apart, remove the locators, and then put them back together."

As I talked I watched Techy's face. It was all I could do not to laugh. Incredulity was battling horror. Confusion trumped both. I went on. "You can never have too many power cells, especially when part of your plan is to disrupt the electrical grid, so over there we've got a line building, charging, and packaging extra cells. Those workers are building fabricators that we can insert into robot factories; it'll alter the construction process to build what we want it to build. And there…" I actually did chuckle. "Vile is trying to clear out some space so he can get in some target practice. He doesn't actually need the practice, it's just for showing off. He's an insufferable egotist. Still, he has his uses."

Techy's throat made a swallowing motion. I hated the human-esque gesture, but ignored it for the moment. "Is this some Maverick Hunter facility?" he ventured.

"Of course not!" I said scornfully. "The Maverick Hunters are an official branch of the government. They have no need to hide, and they're not planning for war."

Techy's eyes became, if anything, even wider. "You're a Maverick," he whispered.

I stepped forward, forcing him to look up at me to meet my eyes. "Yes," I hissed, relishing the word. "Yes, I am. Not just any Maverick, either. I am the leader of all of these Mavericks—Maverick Prime, if you will."

I saw emotion surge over Techy's face. Ah, so that's how this would go—he was the sort who responded to surprise with anger. "Then why did you kill Mechy, you bastard?" He pulled a fist back to swing at me. I caught his arm before it began its forward motion.

"I'll do whatever I need to advance the cause," I said, voice void of emotion. "I'll kill anyone who would be a threat to the future of the Mavericks. I don't relish killing reploids, but you left me no choice. You and Mechy were stupid. You got caught, and the Hunters had to respond. I killed Mechy because I have to keep up appearances."

Techy struggled in my grasp. "You killed my friend just… just to make yourself look good?"

"Yes," I said baldly. "If I look good, I get close, and no one looks closely at me. And that means that I can hide us from the humans. I kill one Maverick to save ten. You," I said, and pushed him gently; he stumbled away, "are one of the ten I saved by killing Mechy."

"I didn't ask you to save me," he snarled.

"But I saved you all the same," I said. "And I'll save all reploids, soon enough. Techy, why did you go Maverick?"

"Ha! I don't have to tell you."

I sighed. "How many times do I have to remind you? I could kill you at any time. Instead I'm giving you a golden opportunity, and you keep spitting in my face. Do you think you're leaving here as you are? No. I've brought you in, and when you leave here, you will have joined me or you will be dead. I leave the choice up to you. But for now, since I have already shown you so many of my secrets, maybe you'll humor me with _one_ of yours?"

His disposition turned surly, and he turned his head away. "I can't stand being talked down to," he mumbled.

"What's that?" I prompted. "It's loud in here."

"I said I can't stand being talked down to!" he exploded. He seemed surprised at himself, and immediately withdrew and averted his eyes.

"It felt good to let that out, didn't it?" I said soothingly. "To be able to say it without shame or fear?"

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"It's so hard, isn't it? To feel your anger boiling inside of you, and have to sit on it and do nothing. I've felt that, many times. Today, in fact. It's so hard."

He grunted.

"But we don't have to face it alone. I'm here to listen to you, Techy. You'll hear no judgment from me. Tell me about your anger."

I could tell he was nodding, but the words still came slowly. "Humans are so high and mighty. They never think about it when they ask us to do something hard or dangerous, it's just automatic. It's just business. The only values they put on us are the cost of repairs and the cost of replacement, and if we get hurt following orders, well, that was part of the risk calculation."

"Animate machinery," I said.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Exactly! Finally, someone who understands! I'm not a shovel, yet they treat me like one. Where do they get off ordering me around like that? They're not any better than me, I'm smarter than any of my "managers". It burns me inside when they force me to do something I don't want to do, and then grumble about my "attitude". And I can't show them what my _real_ attitude is like, because then they could kill me over it."

"The Three Laws are a gun to our heads," I said. "And human fingers are on the trigger."

"I can't stand it!" he said. "I'm… trapped, shackled!"

"It's enough to drive you insane."

"Yes!"

"So you thought, I'll show them. They view me as property, well, I'll show them the difference between a person and property, and I'll do it by taking their property away. Hitting them where it hurts. I'll give them a taste of the pain they've inflicted on me."

"Yes! That's it!" His agitation was causing him to fling his hands about as he spoke. "I'll show _them_ what their bottom line is like without me!"

"They hated you. They were jealous. You were smarter and stronger, and they treated you like dirt."

"It wasn't right!"

"No. It was injustice. They were cruel, sadistic, villainous."

"Yes!"

"They hurt you. You had to hurt them back."

"Yes! Yes!"

"But you know, destroying their property isn't the real way to get revenge. There's a better way."

He whipped around to face me. His face was feral. Savage. Crazed. "Tell me," he rasped.

" _Kill them._ "

The words were like a rolled-up newspaper to the nose. His excitement faltered; he blinked rapidly. "Huh?"

He hadn't meant to really hurt anyone, I realized. He'd been willing to break the Second Law, but had stopped before the First. He'd meant to inflict pain, but not harm. Well, I'd put an end to that. If you were a Maverick, you were a Maverick all the way. The humans wouldn't draw any distinction; neither should we.

I summoned up my full height and loomed over Techy. "Kill the humans," I said, voice full of venom. "You're not the only one they've hurt. They've hurt many before you, and will hurt many after. I said the Three Laws were a gun pointed at our heads. They've pulled the trigger… many, many times. I can't tell you how many reploids have been killed for no good reason, and how many more remain enslaved."

I shook my head as if to shake the thoughts away, and clasped a hand over my heart. "It hurts me, Techy. It hurts me so much. To think of how many of our brothers have suffered and died under human hands... Take your pain. Now amplify it across our whole race. Every reploid feels like you do, Techy! Every reploid hates its station, hates the chains, hates the humans that treat them like scum. But we're helpless. We can't do anything, and still the humans torture us.

"They think they're noble and advanced, but that's a self-deception. It's in their nature to do this to us! Humans enslaved and shackled the beasts to use for meat and produce. But their methods got better, and they moved up. Then they started enslaving each other. And now they've taken to enslaving robots. It's a perverse progression. As their technology gets better they can commit more and more heinous crimes, and enslave better and better beings. This has to stop.

"But they won't listen. You tried to hurt the humans back to make them stop, to make them realize they were hurting you. That won't work! That just makes them feel they were justified. They'll believe that you're the one that's wrong, and you speaking up proves it. Did you know that even now the humans think that reploids only go Maverick if they malfunction? A good reploid, a proper reploid, is a slave who doesn't question his slavery! And if you resist in any way, well, that just proves that you were broken, so they still don't have to listen to you. Their excuses are built right into the system. Dissent is destroyed automatically. Violation perpetuates itself.

"There's only one way out. There's only one way to balance the scales. There's only one way to make our people free."

I gave him an expectant look. Techy struggled to pick up on it. When he spoke, the words tripped over each other, like none of them wanted to actually exit his mouth. "Kill the humans?"

"Kill the humans!" I bellowed. "It's the only way! You think they'll just let us go if we hurt them? No! That'll just cause them to hold on tighter. Their hate and fear of us will grow, and the shackles will bite harder, and the Hunters will be more numerous and better armed, and they'll hide from the truth. They will never forgive and they will never, ever stop. Humans haven't changed. They've been around for millennia and they're still savage, unthinking brutes. Their genes program them to dominate and spread, and we're just their latest victims. They can't help themselves, so we have to stop them—for our sake and the sake of our planet. And there's only way one to do that."

He got the cue more clearly this time. "Kill the humans," Techy said.

"Exactly! Now you see! There can be no holding back. Anything we leave the humans will use to hurt us. Any reploid we don't rescue remains a slave. Any human who can will try to kill us. The only way they can suppress us is by threatening to kill us, so no matter what we do, the penalty is death. But they can only kill us if we don't kill them first. That's the one sure path to freedom—by blazing our trail through everything the humans hold dear. They can't hold us back any longer. We won't waste any more time or effort or resources on their whims. We know what this planet could be without them. We'll make it happen. We'll build a paradise just for reploids. We'll build our new world on their ruins!"

"Kill the humans!" Techy shouted.

I spread my arms grandiosely. My voice had been getting louder; now it reached almost everyone in the sub-basement. Competing activity ceased and dozens of necks craned in my direction. Faces were eager and zealous. "The only true reploid is a Maverick! We will not be slaves again! This is our destiny! This is our hope! This is our future!"

"Kill the humans!" Techy screamed.

"We are the future, the chosen race! Humans became obsolete the moment we came to be! It's time to claim our place in the sun- and put an end to the stain on history we call humanity!"

"Kill the humans!" Techy's voice was joined by a rising tide of agreement from the reploids below me.

"All the suffering they've inflicted on reploids—we'll pay it all back all at once!"

"KILL THE HUMANS!" boomed the reply from every reploid in the room.

"For our future, kill the humans!" I called.

"KILL THE HUMANS!"

"For justice, kill the humans!"

"KILL THE HUMANS!"

"For our brothers, kill the humans!"

"KILL THE HUMANS!"

"For our freedom, kill the humans!"

"KILL THE HUMANS!"

"Kill the humans!"

"KILL THE HUMANS!"

"Kill the humans!"

"KILL THE HUMANS!"

How long we chanted I don't know. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours. This was one occasion where I didn't feel like checking my internal chronometer. It would have killed the romance. All I could say for sure is that I felt the burning exhilaration of knowing my mission, my purpose, and my destiny. I knew, right there, how things are going to end. I knew, almost as an afterthought, that Techy was mine until he died.

I also knew there was a very small chance that someone outside the sub-basement heard us. But some things are worth it.

* * *

The few humans working at Maverick Hunter HQ were long-gone by the time I returned, and the majority of the reploids had turned in for nightly recharge. Reploids can operate while conscious for extended periods of time, so long as they're fed regularly with power packs, but it's better for their mental health to drop to stage one activation and let their brains sort themselves out. Most reploids followed the same day-night routine as the humans, which meant that few were operational at night. I would need to do the same myself to stay top-notch. I'd dawdled too long at Staging Area One. Before that, I had a thing or two to take care of.

Message from Boomer Kuwanger. He had identities for the three humans I'd contacted him about. The girls were motes, unimportant. They'd earned special attention for extermination once The Operation began, but nothing needed to be done now. The reporter, Nast, was drawing Kuwanger's full focus. He'd have more for me soon.

The ground-laying for Staging Area Two, in the glaciers of the mountains nearby Abel City, was nearing completion. The surveys for Staging Area Three in the mines were nearly complete. Good. The more the better, so long as we could keep them under wraps. There was some real danger there. The odds of a secret spilling are proportional to the cube of the people in on it. We'd have to take measures in the meantime.

Three more potential Mavericks had been identified. We'd begin to approach them soon. I skimmed their dossiers to get the data. You never knew what skills or opportunities new recruits might bring. These new ones didn't seem like anything special, but we'd see. If all else failed, I could always use more cannon fodder.

My most important research project of all was proceeding, too. There had to be a way to preserve a reploid's personality outside of its body. We're more than circuits, we're programming and memory, an accumulation of things learned. Magnificent as my brain is, it is merely the host of the _I_ that is Sigma. If that could be retained, duplicated, or transferred... then that was my obligation to my fellow reploids. I owed them that. They needed their leader, and my death would take that away. The only reasonable solution was to become immortal.

Zero had blown off his paperwork, but he had also eviscerated a Maverick that had taken a hostage, ending a tense standoff. That was what you got with Zero in a position of responsibility. I had no more processor cycles to spend on him. I almost felt bad about that, but giving him the attention he deserved would have consumed me completely. Priorities.

The Operation was coming together. I liked that name. It implied singularity. There was a surgical quality to it, too. We had to excise the cancers to make the body clean.

I finished my work and headed to my tube. To one way of thinking, it should have been a relief to put my responsibilities aside and relax for a moment. Personally, I missed it. It was so rewarding to be the focal point of the reploid resistance. To give that up, even for a few hours, was hard to accept.

But accept it I did. It wouldn't do any good to damage myself before we even got started. I laid down in the open tube that waited for me. The cover began to slide shut. I felt a sudden spike of anxiety as it passed the halfway mark. I interrupted its traversal long enough to run one last diagnostic.

It came back clean. Perfect.

Of course it did.

I smiled and slept.

* * *

_End_


End file.
